


Walk You Home Tonight

by cumberhardhiddlesbitch



Series: The Rhombus 'Verse [2]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-29 10:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberhardhiddlesbitch/pseuds/cumberhardhiddlesbitch
Summary: Prior to beginning production on Warrior, Tom meets Shannon in London.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- Tree

Tom leaned his back against the damp bricks, looking up and down the narrow alley. As alleys went, he thought, it was one of the nicer ones he'd ever been in. No food smell, no debris under his feet, just the oily scent of rain on new pavement, hum of cars at the far end and the quieter sounds of a footpath at the other. The door to the gallery's back hallway had been propped open with a coffee can full of sand, a few cigarette butts already mashed in. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. There was still a mostly crushed cigarette package there, tempting him. He sighed and pulled it out, determined that this time, it really was going to be the last.

He had just lit up when he heard the heavy curtain over the small hallway opening, followed by quick steps out into the alley. He stiffened, ready to defend himself for being out there, to take a moment when he didn't have to look happy but not too enthused, intellectual but not aloof-- but when he looked he realized it wasn't his publicist at all.

"Hi." She was his height, heavy boots, bright tights, a mid-thigh denim skirt that looked like it was from no era at all, patched together from what looked to be dozens of different pairs of jeans. Her shirt was different too, sleeves harvested from a thermal, the body almost a corset in some sort of dark brocade. Oddly enough it worked. "I didn't think anyone would be out here." She was winding her hands in the ends of the sleeves, then pushed them back abruptly.

"I didn't think so either." He felt rude, smoking in front of her, as if she was going to give him hell for polluting the pristine London air. "You want one?" He gestured with the cigarette.

"You know what, yeah, I do, thanks." She held out her hand, and he set the cigarette in his mouth as he shook out the last one from the pack, a little bent now. He smoothed it out between his fingers before he handed it to her. "Oh, it's your last one, I shouldn't."

"Nah, it's good. I said I was giving them up after this pack but if I walk around with just one sooner or later I'll lose it and then I'll buy a new pack, start all over again."

She laughed softly, holding in between her first two fingers, clearly not entirely used to it. "I know the feeling."

He blinked, surprised, wondering if she actually was a smoker. 

"I don't actually have a lighter," she said.

"Oh. Sorry." He handed her his lighter, carefully, making sure she had it in hand before he let go. She flipped it open easily enough but he could tell from the first touch of her thumb against the flint that she wasn't going to be able to get it to go. Sure enough, it was only sparking.

"It's temperamental." He held his hand out for it, shook it, feeling the fluid move around inside the metal case. He tilted it just so, beckoned her closer, and held his hand cupped over the end of her cigarette as he lit it, leaning close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off of her.

She stepped back as she took the first drag, turned her head away from him and coughed delicately, twice, before bringing it back to her lips.

"I don't, usually," she said, almost apologetic, as if he would mind that he'd given his last cigarette to a social smoker.

"You don't say."

She laughed, dragging the heel of her boot across the rain slick pavement, leaving a dull path through the shining black. "Just when I'm drinking, which is rare enough. Or now."

"And now would be an exception, why?"

She shrugged, flicking the ash inexpertly. "If anyone comes out here looking for me, I can just claim I was desperate for a fag."

He nodded. "I thought you were someone looking for me, actually."

She shook her head. "No, but I expect that someone will be along for me shortly. I'm supposed to be mingling and talking to people." The way she said it made it sound distasteful in the extreme.

"I'm supposed to be doing the same."

"But is anyone minding you?" She pushed her hair away from her face, holding it at the back of her head for a moment and he took a good look at her. She wasn't anyone he remembered meeting, or seeing in a film, but if there were someone watching her, making sure she interacted with the people at this event, she might be an actress. He hated to sound rude, or worse, condescending.

"There is someone minding me, in fact." It occurred to him that her nonchalance might not be an act, that she might actually not know who he was. He surprised himself with how much he relished the thought. "I expect I'll be taken to task for disappearing."

She looked at him more carefully, her eyebrows drawing together a bit. "I guess you might be." She smiled, one-sided, almost to herself as she turned away for a moment, one last drag as she finished, turning to stick it in the coffee can when she was done. He figured he was made, finally, but she didn't mention it, didn't give him any of the usual _I think I know you_ type openings. "What do you think of the show?"

"I like it, though I'd prefer to have seen it alone, on a normal day."

"Tell me about it. It's a zoo in there. I don't think I've ever had my photograph taken so much. I'll have no soul left by the time this is over."

"I know the feeling," he said, realized he'd unconsciously repeated what she'd said to him moments earlier. She was definitely not an actress, then, he thought, if she was so unaccustomed to having her photo taken. "And everyone is talking like they actually know what they're on about."

"That’s more than half of why people come out though," she said, looking at a spot on the wall behind him. “To show off their art school chops.”

"I don’t have any of those, myself,” he said.

“What brings you out, then?” She looked a little less awkward as she took a drag off the cigarette but he had a feeling she would have been just as happy with anything else to fidget with. 

"I tend to be a bit of recluse, or so I’m told. It was suggested to me that I get out for a change.” 

She looked up and down the alley, and smirked at him. “Well done.”

“Well I also like seeing new art. Seeing what’s new.” He found himself a bit at a loss for words.

She nodded, letting her hair fall over half her face. Tom resisted the urge that had come over him suddenly to reach out and push it back. "Did you see enough then?”

“I’ll go back,” he said. “Take another look. I already know which one’s my favorite though.”

“Oh, which one?” She crouched down and stubbed her cigarette out in the sand, sooner and more thoroughly than a real smoker would have done.

“Daedalus,” he said, the name easy enough to remember, given the overal motif of wings.

“That’s my favorite as well,” she said.

"I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already bought it then."

She gasped so suddenly that he thought she'd hurt herself, turned her ankle, or something.

"What, are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine, just a bit awkward." She had her arms wrapped around her waist, resting at her stomach, though it wasn't all that cold out.

"Awkward how?"

"I mean, to be honest, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go get coffee after this thing is over, but," she trailed off.

"But what?"

"You just bought that huge painting." She waved her hand at the wall, as if they could see it through the bricks, but he had a feeling that she was pointing right to it.

"Yeah, I'm not taking it with me tonight," Tom said slowly. "You don't have to worry about me dragging it into an all night diner or anything."

"It's mine, though."

He was about to protest that he'd bought it, fair and square, when it hit him. "You're Shannon?"

She nodded, rocking back on her heels. "You see my conundrum." She looked at him expectantly.

"I don't, really. You're an artist, not my doctor."

She erupted into laughter, then shook her head, slightly. "Good point. Ok. Well then. Would you like to go out after this is over, and get some coffee? I know a good place."

He smiled. "Sounds good."

"Good. Well." She stepped nearer to him, and for a moment he was puzzled, thinking she was going to try to hug him, though her arms stayed wrapped near her waist, but she was only trying to get back to the door. "I should really get back in there."

"Me too. In a moment."

She seemed to be waiting for something, lingering in the doorway. "You know my name. I could find yours out easily enough, I suppose, but it doesn't seem right that I should go sneak behind your back to get that."

"Tom." He held his hand out, habit ingrained since youth, and she took it. Her handshake was firm, but not overly so.

"Nice to meet you, Tom. If you lose me somehow in there, I'll meet you out here." She grinned as she walked, backwards back into the hallway. "Nothing odd about arranging to meet you in an alley, I suppose." Before he could answer she was already beyond the curtain, back into the colorful mess of the gallery.

He waited a few minutes, not wanting it to appear that they'd re-entered together. At these sorts of functions, there was always someone who would notice. Everyone was either bored or uncomfortable, and everyone had their own ways of dealing with it. He sneaked out and smoked-- or didn’t smoke. Other people preferred gossip.

The gathering was winding down. There was a moment when the owner of the gallery called for everyone's attention, spoke briefly about the honor of hosting Shannon's first solo show. She stood next to him, carefully holding a flute of champagne, though when he had called for a toast she barely touched it to her lips. Tom looked around and realized that for all that Shannon had looked entirely normal to him, she was under-dressed, in her strange couture, compared to most of the women there.

He caught her eye as she was saying goodnight to a seemingly endless stream of people. Then, rather than fight it, he joined them, giving his compliments to the gallery owner, who was still thrilled, naturally, that he'd bought the largest piece in the show, then to Shannon, taking her offered hand in both of his this time.

"Plan still the same?" he asked.

"It would be easier to meet you out front, if that's ok," she said, looking around to make sure no one was overhearing her. 

"That's fine. I'll be there."

He took his time pulling his coat on, stood near the front of the building as the stream of pedestrians went by, largely unnoticed.

It hadn't been so surprising that she didn't know his name, but there was a moment when he'd been sure that she would know it, a certain look to her when she'd smirked to herself. As he waited he resolved to find out what that had been about.

When she joined him she slipped her arm into his right away, started walking. "We have to keep moving," she said in a low voice. "If any of the gallery people see that I'm leaving with you, they'll glom on."

"And you don't want glommers," he asked.

"No, I do not." She was easy enough to keep up with but he felt like he was being led, an odd sensation. While waiting at a curb she switched the angle of her arm, managed to tuck herself more firmly against his side, and he felt better as they walked, more balanced, less like he was being pulled down the street.

"Where are we going?" he finally asked. It wasn't anywhere that he'd been before, but then again, the gallery was in an area that could, at best, be called up and coming.

"Just a bit more," she said, her steps almost springy.

"I'm not worried about how far it is, I'm worried that I'll never find my way back."

She laughed. "I'll make sure you get home alright, don't worry."

The shopfronts were all shut, some of them with shutters drawn. There were fewer and fewer pedestrians, but then, at another cross street, there was a gentle influx of people, a knot of them milling about outside one of the narrow doorways.

"Here we are," she said. "Home sweet home away from home." She slipped her arm free, pushed the tall red door open, revealing only a staircase, the walls on either side covered in fliers and tape, the embossed white paint barely visible in the gaps.

"What is this place?" he asked as they climbed. He could just barely hear the sound of music and people talking from a floor above.

"It's the restaurant for the food co-op," she said as they got to the top of the stairs, where instead of opening out into a wide space there was yet another door on a narrow landing. "It's good. I think you'll like it here. Everyone I bring here does."

The space opened up, finally, as he'd been expecting, a broad but irregularly shaped room with high white ceilings, tall windows looking down over the street, and tables that apparently had been scavenged from several different neighborhoods and eras scattered through the space. The furthest part of the room extended in an L-shape and held a long counter, with an espresso bar and a clear cooler full of food.

"We can sit anywhere," she said, pulling him towards one of the smaller tables in a corner. Her path was suddenly obstructed by a tall slender man in an apron.

"Shannon!" He threw his arms open wide, and Shannon fairly threw herself into them, hugging him tight but quick before stepping back. 

"Edward! You're back! I wasn't expecting to see you!"

"Not even home for twenty-four hours and I'm already working. I'm so fucking jetlagged, excuse my language." He looked over Shannon's shoulder at Tom, then froze.

"Oh, sorry," Shannon said. "Edward, this is Tom. We met at the gallery tonight. Tom, Edward, co-op diva extraordinaire and one of my oldest friends."

"Pleased to meet you," Edward said, reaching his hand out.

"Likewise."

"You'll want that table in the corner, it's practically got Shannon's name on it, but you'd better go nab it. I've got to talk to Shannon but I won't be a moment." He had his hands clasped around her upper arms, already pushing her away, Shannon putting up only token resistance, looking at Tom apologetically. 

"I'll be right there."

Tom sat down, watched as Edward guided her around the corner, unaware, apparently, that their reflections were easily visible in the dark window. Edward pointed to Tom with his head, nodded emphatically. Shannon looked around the corner for a second, then back at Edward, then smacked him in the middle of his chest, lightly, but enough to make him step back. It still didn't strike Tom as dangerous or untoward, but strange. Shannon seemed untroubled though as she came back to the table.

"Edward was just telling me why I should have recognized you," she said.

"Oh?"

"Bronson. Edward raved about it until I agreed to watch it with him. Then he must have made me watch the DVD extras like, five hundred times." Her mouth dropped open almost as soon as she'd finished speaking. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Words, get back in my mouth."

"What, what are you apologising for? They're there so people can watch them." He shrugged, leaning back. It was clear enough that he looked different without all the extra muscle, so not so strange that she would have been thinking she knew him, yet unable to place from where. Besides, it was no secret that the people watching his workout routine weren't going to be doing it for the pointers.

"I don't know, it just seems unfair, I guess. I mean, you just met me tonight, and I've seen you in those interviews, and," her voice trailed off and he grinned at her, guessing that she had just, at that moment, remembered Bronson's naked charge of the guards.

His guess had to wait as Edward came over with water glasses and a carafe, smiling brielfly at them before he hurried away.

Tom poured her a glass of water, then one for himself but by the end of all that she still seemed discomforted.

"Don't worry about it." He reached out and slipped his fingers under her wrist, holding her hand for just a moment. "Please?"

"Ok. Sorry."

"So, I don't know anything at all about you, which seems unfair," Tom said, letting go of her hand.

She rolled the edge of her water glass back and forth on the table. "You didn't read my bio?"

"There was a bio?" He had wandered around the gallery like a fish in a tank, but he didn't remember a bio.

"It was on that awful poster, on the easel in the foyer," she said. "I told them it was tacky, but they wouldn't listen to me. Probably happy that for once they didn't have to do what I told them to."

"Why would that be?"

"I'm usually in charge of setting up installations at that gallery. I get to say what goes where, within reason. Sometimes the artist wants to tell a story or evoke a mood with the order of their pieces, but most often I get to choose where things are hung, with what lighting, and how the flow of the entire floor should go. Ironically, they chose someone else to curate this show."

"Did that bother you?" She seemed unfazed by it, but he suspected that curating a show took more than met the eye, or at least more than he could imagine easily.

"Not really, to be honest. If I'd done it myself I'd have wanted to keep everything in and that's just not possible. You have to be brutal sometimes, to put together a cohesive show that isn't cluttered. There was one piece I knew had to be left out, but if I'd done it, I would have kept it in."

"What made it so you'd have to keep it out?"

She looked at him, not staring, not spacing out, just looking at his face. He found the sensation oddly comfortable. "I don't know if I can explain, really. You'd have to see it. I mean, I could explain, but it would take the rest of the evening."

"I'd like to see it, then."

She nodded. "Alright. I can't promise it will be soon, but I'll make sure you see it." She lifted a paper menu out of its perch between a vase and a salt shaker. "I don't know why I always look at this, I know what I want." She tucked the menu back behind the salt shaker. "I want a flapjack, and coffee," she said, looking over her shoulder. "Really, we're supposed to go up and order it ourselves, but I was hoping Edward was going to be around."

"He's probably hiding, I'd guess," Tom said. "He seemed a little spooked."

Shannon sighed. "Too true, he probably is hiding. I'm going to go order my food, then. What do you want?"

He thought of his trainer, thought of the work he was going to have to put in before his next film, and then tried to consider how bad one little flapjack could really be. "The same, if it's good."

"It is. Is there anything you don't like? They put different stuff in sometimes."

"I'm sure it's all fine."

He finished his water as she walked away. The flounce of her skirt hid her shape, but the top showed her waist off to good effect, broad shoulders flaring out above the firm corseting. He wondered if she'd been a swimmer, in school, or perhaps was still, his thoughts wandering as he waited for her. She was lovely, not to mention that he was intrigued by her, but he was going to be leaving sooner rather than later for California, then Pennsylvania. The question was, did he want to start something he couldn't keep going, or do nothing. He barely knew her, he reasoned. He had bought a piece of her art, shared his last package of cigarettes with her, and escaped from an overly packed and claustrophobic art event. It wasn't much to go on. Even as he thought it, he couldn't stop himself from turning around to look her her. She was standing near the till, leaning her elbows on it as she spoke to someone out of his sight, probably Edward, and she turned to look at him just as he looked at her. He whipped his head round, too fast for it to have been called casual, and sighed deeply. Doing nothing at all seemed out of the question.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Tree

"Fuck, Edward, he just looked at me, just as I looked at him!"

Edward rolled his eyes. "Are you in sixth form all of a sudden? He looked at you and you're freaking out, are you serious?"

She glared at him. "Maybe he was looking at you. There, are you freaking out now?"

Edward smirked at her. "Only a little. Ok, I'll put you out of your misery. Go sit down, I'll bring everything out to you." He handed her the change and she dropped it in the tip jar, ignoring his sounds of disapproval. 

"You're not the only one working here, you know. I have to support counter intelligence somehow."

"Don't lower yourself to puns." He shoved her shoulder gently. "Go."

She felt off balance the entire time she walked back, like the floor might open up and swallow her at any moment, but she made it back to their little corner without stumbling.

"Edward is going to bring it over," she said. "I didn't know how you take your coffee."

"Black is fine," he said. 

"There's milk if you want it. I think they have every kind, actually."

"What, skimmed and not skimmed?"

"No, like, almond milk, soy, rice, probably some others I'm not remembering." She had her hands under the table, dug her fingernails into her palms to try to stop the babbling. 

"Those are always so sweet," he said.

"Except for when they're homemade," she said. "I've had the almond milk here and it's practically undrinkable." It was at that moment that Edward appeared by her side as if summoned.

"You know, making the almond milk is one of my jobs," he said.

She looked up at him. "I stand by my assessment. I can't take it. I'm sure it tastes just as it should." 

"Nice try." He set down her plate and mug, then Tom's. "Do you guys need milk?"

"We're fine, thanks," Tom said, smiling up at him in a way that he had to know would drive Edward to distraction. Edward looked a little dazed as he walked back towards the kitchen.

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, Tom biting a corner off the flapjack while Shannon broke hers into pieces as she ate it, a habit she'd had for a long while.

"This is nice," Tom said.

Shannon smiled, still charmed by the British convention of referring to food as nice.

"Yeah, it is. I think Edward probably made these as well. He's got a thing for dried cherries lately." She sipped her coffee, trying not to stare at Tom's mouth, the flicker of his tongue against his lower lip as he caught a crumb about to fall.

"You still haven't answered any of my questions," Tom pressed.

"I don't recall you asking any." She took a bite, as if having a full mouth could preclude her from speaking.

"I told you I didn't know anything about you."

She shrugged as she chewed, waiting until her mouth was empty to speak. "That's not a question, it's a statement. And I told you, there's a wretched bio about a mile that way." She nodded back the way they'd come.

"I'm lazy and I don't want to walk back there right now. Where did you grow up?"

She sighed, having expected it. "It's complicated."

"I knew that much."

There was the sudden flare of something that almost felt like shame but was more like shyness, the usual moment of being found out from an accent. It almost never happened in the US, most Americans willing to accept anything vaguely different from their own speech as An Accent, but within England and particularly London she was sometimes asked point blank where she was from, the odd mix of rhotic and dropped r and round and flat vowels apparently disconcerting.

"Yeah, I thought you might notice that."

Tom's eyes widened, his hands reaching out quickly but not crossing the center of the table. "No, I didn't mean anything bad by it, you just have a really distinct way of speaking."

She laughed. "I think that's the first time anyone's put it that way. Alright. I was born in the United States, and I lived there until I was eleven, when my parents got divorced. My mother was born in London, and her parents are from Glasgow and Dublin, and I spent a lot of each summer in London and visiting cousins in Ireland and Scotland when I lived in the US. Then I moved to England with my mom, and we stayed in London, and when I was seventeen I moved back to the United States for university."

Tom leaned back in his chair. "That is truly dizzying."

"Imagine how it felt to live it," she pointed out. "I can't really say where it is that I consider home." As with every time that she considered the question she paused, inwardly, waiting for a needle to spin to one side or the other, but as usual it did not. "I still spend a lot of time traveling back and forth. Luckily my job allows it, and when I go home I've always got a place to stay."

"You just said you didn't know which was home." Tom looked curious, not challenging.

She considered it for a moment. "I think I always refer to the place I'm not as home." She tried to think of the last time she'd been leaving Maine, tried to remember if she'd considered coming back to London coming home or not, and found that she couldn't recall.

"What about you?" she asked. "Where did you grow up?"

"Here in London, in Hammersmith. My parents are still married, and they still live in the house I grew up in. It was a pleasant, comfortable place to grow up." He was playing with a bit of food on his plate, not quite looking at her. "I didn't always make the most of my many advantages," he said.

He seemed embarrassed to admit it. "I think the same could probably be said for most people?"

He gave her a hard look, as if trying to decide whether or not she was putting him on. "Probably not for the same reasons, I would say."

"I have no idea what you mean," she said. "If you're thinking I know something about how you grew up, I don't."

He actually smiled, then. "That makes a change. Suffice to say, I rarely acted with my own best interests in mind."

She was suddenly possessed with a burning curiosity, and even though it was clear that he wanted to leave it, to not even mention whatever it was that he'd done, she had to know.

"So you, I don't know, started fires?"

He laughed. "Why would you guess that?" He was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, smiling at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. It seemed an expression at odds with the conversation, but she found herself smiling back.

"It's destructive, impulsive. It could get out of hand, I suppose. People have a natural fascination with it, but it's anti-social to go around setting fires. Actually, now that I mention it, I'm kind of hoping that you didn't go around setting fires."

"Once, no, twice," he said, his expression still pleasant. "I was burning out the insides of cars, far away from anyone who might've got hurt by them."

She felt her mouth begin to drop open, then carefully closed it, licking her lips as she gathered her thoughts. "I guess I thought you were going to tell me you repeated sixth form or something. Didn't get any A levels, or maybe that you bunked of your work experience so often they threatened to fail you for the year."

He laughed as he looked away from her, a low, quiet rumble. "No. Stealing cars, mostly, I'm afraid. Drugs, too. Larceny. The odd bit of arson, as I said." He picked up the last crumbs off his plate with the tip of his finger and sucked just the pad of it into his mouth for a moment. She couldn't look away. "Let me think, what was my favorite. Theft by unauthorized taking, you know, to differentiate it from the other kind. Obtaining an interest through deception." His eyes were hooded as he leaned back, as if he couldn't bear to look at her with his eyes wide open. "I think that's all of it. For what it's worth, I've been clean for going on nine years. Well. Cigarettes. But that's all."

"That's good," she said, her own voice sounding inadequate, platitudinous. What was the appropriate response? _I don't care._ No, clearly she cared. _I don't mind._ Closer to the truth, but potentially still awkward to admit. _You seem lovely and kind, now, so I don't mind._ Foolish.

"What is it you want to ask me?" His voice was soft, but carried, and she realized that he'd been speaking softly the whole time, and she'd been leaning forward to hear him.

"I'm not sure," she said. "It all seems so rude."

He shrugged, the gesture moving the entirety of his chest. "I just told you that I've committed a list of crimes as long as your arm and I used to do hard drugs. I don't really know what could be ruder than that."

She sipped at her coffee, her mouth having gone suddenly dry. "The committing of the crimes, or the telling?"

"I think that stealing a car goes a bit beyond rude, don't you? I meant the conversation killing."

"It's not dead yet."

"Glad to hear it. What did you want to know?"

She thought for a moment of everything that she might like to ask. _Did you go to jail? For how long? How much trouble did you get in, how many times weren't you caught. Are your parents still angry with you?_ None of it really seemed right.

"Are you ok?"

He shook his head, quickly. "What?"

"I just, are you ok? That's all I really wanted to know."

He shifted so his legs were extended all the way to her side of the table, the toe of his boot tapping gently against the side of hers. "Yeah, I'm alright. Is that really all you wanted to know?"

"For now, I guess." When he kept silent she thought of something else that seemed appropriate to ask, something that didn't feel too purient. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what, the drugs or stealing cars?"

"Either, or both."

He shook his head. "Honestly, not even for a moment. I hadn't stolen a car since I was a kid anyway. In my twenties I was trying to work and use drugs at the same time and it was exhausting. Much easier to have nothing to have to try not to be caught out for."

"I can't imagine." 

"Good." 

She looked into the bottom of her empty coffee cup, hoping that the evening wasn't about to end. Even if it was, she still had one more question.

"Which came first?"

He folded his feet back under his chair, leaning forward, and she did the same, copying his posture instinctually. "You have no idea how many times I've tried to figure that out, or how much money my parents paid other people trying to figure it out. It's a mystery. I really don't remember."

"Fair enough." The cafe was growing quieter, though there was still an hour left until their official closing, and she knew very well that Edward wouldn't kick them out. As if she'd summoned him he was walking towards them, a fresh cafetiere in his hand.

"I probably shouldn't let Shannon have more, she'll be up all night," Edward said, setting it on the table. He wasn't wearing an apron any longer, Shannon noticed.

"I will not," Shannon protested. "You know I can drink a whole one of these by myself and then sleep like a baby."

"Yes, by the time the sun is coming up," Edward pointed out.

Tom looked at the empty chairs surrounding a nearby table. "Maybe you should join us, to make sure Shannon doesn't drink too much of it on her own."

"I could do," Edward said, pretending to consider it, though Shannon knew that if she could hear inside his head it would be nothing but happy shrieks right at that moment. "I'll be right back."

Shannon smiled at Tom as Edward hurried off. "Well, he's made up."

"Easy to please, then, is he?"

Shannon shook her head. "No. Not really."

When Edward was with them Tom deflected the conversation away from himself, subtly but consistently bringing it back to Edward and Shannon. Shannon found herself laughing at a story she'd heard Edward tell dozens of times, the details seeming fresh now that she was hearing it with Tom, and to her surprise there were even things that she told them, about her job, her artwork, and her family, that she hadn't ever mentioned to Edward before.

She was pondering how suddenly she'd felt comfortable around Tom when she realized that Edward was talking about galleries in London, and the ones Shannon worked with especially.

"Shannon is brutal, though," Edward was saying to Tom.

"Brutal? How am I brutal?" Shannon looked around but her voice, though raised, hadn't attracted undue attention in the cafe.

"When you're curating a show. Sometimes you make people leave their pet projects right out of it. No love for the artist's babies." He put his hand over his heart, as if he himself had experienced her capricious choice of one work over another.

"That's common, though," she said. "Sometimes the thing an artist is the most attached to is the one thing you just have to leave out."

"I've heard that," Tom said, watching them.

"And you took it so well," Edward pointed out.

"I didn't have a pet project that was left out, it was practically the second part of a diptych," Shannon said, glaring at him. Edward had been privy to her thoughtful commentary on her own show's curation (rants, Edward had called the repeated phone calls) but despite his sympathies to the artists that she had supposedly wronged in the past, he had precious little for her.

"It was an entirely different size and shape, the style was different, they wouldn't even have looked right on the same wall," Edward pointed out. "Even I could have told you that."

"Icarus was meant to go on the opposite wall as Daedalus," Shannon pointed out. "Not side by side at all."

"It was an afterthought," Edward pressed on. "You planned and sketched and prepped for Daedalus for a month before you even started working, and then you crank out Icarus in practically one sleepless night." He tapped the side of the cafetiere again and she flicked the underside of his wrist as he tried to look meaningfully at Tom, his blase expression ruined by his yelp. "It wasn't going to fit in the same show, is all I'm saying."

"Small minds," she groused. "It could have gone where that fucking poster was."

Tom spoke up. "Should I see it some time?" They both looked at him, reminded that he was actually there. "If it's a companion piece to Daedalus, I mean."

"You should, actually," Shannon said. "It's not far from here."

"I'd like that." He pushed himself away from the table. "Excuse me a moment."

After he had walked out of their little alcove Edward turned to her. "You can't go to your studio tonight," he said.

"Why not?" 

"I've got to go soon. I can't go with you." He looked almost pained. "I want to, but I'm meeting James and I've been wanting to see him since before I left," he trailed off.

"Nice to know you won't throw him over for the chance to hang out with Tom Hardy." She nudged him affectionately with her elbow.

"It's a sacrifice, believe me." He nudged her back. "I just don't want you going there with him alone."

"I think Christian is working there tonight," Shannon said, taking her phone out. She sent the text quickly, asking Christian if he was in the studio, and for how much longer he planned to be there.

She stared at the phone, willing him to answer quickly, though depending on what he was doing his hands might not even have been free. Mercifully it came quickly. _Here all night. Why?_

"He's there, and he's not going anywhere," Shannon said, smiling triumphantly. "Is that adequate, Edward the Protector?"

Edward looked put out at the honorific. "It is adequate, and I take my job seriously, thank you very much." 

She tapped out a response with her thumb, looked at Edward pouting, and leaned over the corner of the table to kiss his cheek, impulsively wrapping her arm around his head, holding him close as she did. Tom was walking back towards her just as she let him go, Edward theatrically wiping off the side of his face.

"What did I miss?" Tom took his seat again, legs sprawled more than before, more comfortable the emptier the cafe became.

"Shannon was just impugning my dignity, as usual," Edward said, sighing deeply into his coffee cup before drinking again. Shannon rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't you have a date you need to be getting ready for?"

Edward leaned back, arms held open. "Do I not look ready?"

Shannon looked at Tom, tossing it to him. Wisely, perhaps, he declined, shaking his head even as he grinned.

"Tossers," Edward said, affectionately. "I'm off. The cafe is closing soon, so if you're going to the studio you might as well be off."

Shannon stood to hug him goodbye, and Tom stood too, offering Edward his hand.

"Good to meet you, Edward."

"The pleasure is all mine." He managed to sound suave, not simpering, but made off quickly. Shannon made a mental note that she would surely have to reassure him that he didn't make a fool of himself in front of Tom, later.

"Are we going some place?" Tom asked.

Shannon gathered up her mug and plate, and Edward's mug too while Tom picked up his dishes. "I thought if you were still awake we could go to my studio tonight. I could show you that painting."

"Good, yeah, I'm not tired." They brought their plates to the bucket next to the trash can, not quite the last people to leave.

Shannon started snickering when they were in the stairwell.

"What?" Tom held the door to the street for her, holding his arm out to her once she was out.

"I just realized, I just essentially asked you if you wanted to come up and see my etchings." She slipped her arm into his, surprised at how comfortable it was to walk like that, their steps falling into a rhythm easily.

"No, I think it's a little more interesting than that," Tom said.

It felt good, being on Tom's arm. She almost hated to admit it to herself, but it was nice to walk just a little slower than she might have, not feeling like she had to impart every step with a sense of purpose. She let herself look around, the storefronts all closed for the night, most of the shutters marked with graffiti. 

"It took me a long time to get used to these," she said.

"To what?" Tom asked.

"The way the storefronts all get closed up, all of them with shutters, the way they're just one storey, on the front, then flats above.”

He looked around. "I guess the high street in your town looked different?"

She nodded. "The department store's front was two storeys high, and there aren't any shutters. The doors just lock. The streets are far wider too." She struggled to put it into simple, plain words. There were things she could have said about proportion and the mix of height and textures, the way she could guess with some certainty if a photograph had been taken in England or in Maine, even without seeing the double yellow line on the pavement or a British spelling in a shop front. "There's often a step to get up into a building too, even off a footpath, like this." The sills being flush with the ground came with being in a climate that had long been without much if any snow, but it still looked odd to her, almost unfinished.

"I never really noticed," Tom said. "When I'm in America I just think everything looks bigger."

She nodded. "It's a fair cop, really."

Her studio was in a tall brick building that had, years ago, been a factory of some sort. Now the door she unlocked led only to a narrow staircase, the other half of the building that faced the high street given over to smart flats. "I get the side with the most natural light," she said as they climbed. "Christian and I share the landing, but that's all. I'll just stick my head in and say hi."

Tom trailed behind her just a bit as she opened the door that was already cracked open a bit. Inside there was a sound of grinding, as if someone was taking a belt sander to the end of a pipe.

Shannon walked in boldly, standing in front of Christian's work table, waiting for him to look up, well aware that going around to the side would be too dangerous.

"Shannon, hi," he yelled as the machine died down. He set the chunk of metal he'd been smoothing aside, waving to Tom where he stood in the doorway. "Come on in."

Tom seemed a bit lost, walking in slowly. Shannon held out her hand, pointing out the clear path as well as trying to welcome him in, and he surprised her by stepping into the curve of her arm. 

"Tom, this is Christian. Christian, Tom." Christian pulled off the thick glove he'd been wearing and shook Tom's hand over the table.

"How did the show go?" he asked.

"It was good," Shannon said, nodding slowly, not wanting to brag about her sale, especially when the man who had bought the painting in the first place was standing right next to her. It occurred to her that she had no idea whether or not any other pieces had been purchased. "I just hope the gallery isn't pissed that I left as soon as I could."

Christian's eyebrows did go up at that. "I don't know Shannon, what would you think if one of yours took off?"

"They didn't actually try to stop me," she pointed out.

"Not like you'd chase them down either," Christian countered, pulling his glove back on. "I'll hold you to that if I ever bolt from one of your shows."

"I didn't bolt," she said.

"Hey, I'm not judging you." Christian slipped his goggles back on and picked up the mask again.

"Right, well, we'll be next door," Shannon said, taking Tom's hand as she walked away from Christian's work bench.

"Nice meeting you," Tom said, practically over his shoulder. Christian only lifted a small blowtorch in answer, the flame on before they'd even left the room.

Shannon let go of his hand as she unlocked the door to her studio. "He's a little odd, but a good neighbor," she said once they were inside. Even after just a few seconds of holding Tom's hand, her own empty hand felt cool. "Make yourself at home." She looked around the large open room, trying to see it as a stranger would see it. The trestle tables lining the shorter brick wall were covered with piles of paper, news print, and a stack of small canvases, not tidy, exactly, but not chaos either. The tall windows faced only the blank side of another building, but at night the reflections from the lights inside made them look like mirrors, reflecting the backs of the easels and the long canvas that stood in front of it. Piles of paper sat on the floor every few feet, sketches and plans on each one, and that was obviously intentional too-- but it was still piles of stuff, on the floor.

Tom gravitated to the sofa, as most people did. It was a well worn relic from a long forgotten reception room, straight backed, upholstered in a rough orange fabric that time had worn soft, the flattened cushions augmented with various folded blankets and quilts that had taken the shape of the sofa too. She loved it, and it served as a bed, a resting place, a seat for guests, but in that moment she tried to see it as Tom might see it and almost shuddered.

He sat down quickly enough, though, leaning back into the corner, adjusting a folded duvet behind his back as he looked around.

"Can I put my feet on this?" The wooden crate was just at the right height to be used as an ottoman.

"Yeah, put it where ever you like." She wandered over to the small worktop in the corner, ran the water in the sink and filled the kettle. She looked over her shoulder, apologetic as she switched it on. "I know we just had coffee, but I can't seem to come in here without putting the kettle on. I'll make something herbal, I swear."

He laughed. "I'm not monitoring your caffeine intake," he said. "Do you live here?"

"No." She leaned on the opposite end of the sofa, her knees against the edge of the arm. "I have a proper flat and all."

"It's just that going right to the kettle, seems like such a home thing to do."

"Funny, I don't think I do that, at home." She took a deep breath, aware, again, of the stiff fabric of the corseted top, the way the boning was poking into one shoulder blade. It had been alright for a few hours, had started irritating her in the cafe, and now, in a place where she was usually entirely comfortable, it was getting downright annoying. "I swear I don't live here, but I am going to go and," she stopped suddenly, laughing at what she was about to say.

"What?" Tom was leaning forward, clearly curious.

"I'm going to go and, literally, change into something more comfortable."

He grinned. "You do that."

Shannon walked to the end of the galley kitchen, around the side of a small alcove where she was further hidden by a paper screen. A small shelf with a stack of paint-stained clothes sat there. She riffled through the trousers, chose the least ragged pair of jeans and pulled them on under her skirt, then took the skirt off, hanging it on a hook. The shirts were a different matter-- some of the tee-shirts were so worn as to be see-through, while the most acceptable sweatshirt was splattered with paint and had the neck cut out. She thought of going back out in the corset top and jeans, though that would be awkward given the fact that she'd already told him she was changing, that and the fact that she really, truly did want something more comfortable. She flipped it inside out, sighing as she considered it-- a little Flashdance, but acceptable.

It wasn't until she was trying to untie the bow at the back of her neck that she realized she had a bigger problem-- the ribbon was slippery, and the tails of the bow were tiny, the knot pulled tight by her movements all evening long. She picked at it for a few seconds, then gave up. She held the sweatshirt in front of herself as she walked back into the main room, even though she was as dressed as she'd been all night.

Tom looked up, questioning, already taking his feet off the crate.

"I need some help with this," she said. "It's tied in the back."

"Sure." When he stood up she was struck by the fact that they were the same height, or nearly. 

She turned her back to him and pushed the hair up off of her neck, bending her head forward. "There's a bow right in the middle, but it's too tight now," she said.

The first touch of his fingers against the edge of the material, barely grazing against her skin, sent a shivering, tingling feeling up the back of her neck, left her face feeling warm. She coughed a little, hoping to hide any shiver he might have sensed, hoped that any flush to her face would be written off as just due to her leaning forward.

"It's laced wrong," he said, his voice seeming to rumble through her, he was so close to her back. "It shouldn't be laced like a shoe, that's why it pulled on the knot so hard."

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"We were running out of ribbon. I know it's not supposed to be laced like this, but it's the best we could do at the moment."

"You didn't tie yourself into this?" The pressure of his fingertips against the nape of her neck as he worked on the knot seemed to seep a sort of liquid heat all through her. She gathered her hair up tighter, leaned her head forward more, trying to give him room.

"My flatmate did. It's one of Edward's designs, and he didn't leave us enough ribbon, in the end, but it was too late when we realized it."

He took his hands away and she swayed for a moment, until he rested a hand flat on the side of her back, fingers curling around her ribs. Instead of stepping away, he moved closer. "I can untie it," he said, the heat from his body warming her back, breath the barest ghost against her neck and the back of her ear. "But I'll have to use my teeth."

She swallowed hard, throat clicking, hoping he didn't hear. "Go ahead."

He slipped one hand under her upraised arm, forearm pressing against the front of her shoulder, holding her still, the other hand holding the bow in place, pressing hard into the outward curve of her neck. She felt his deep intake of breath, brush of his chin against her skin as he got close enough, then a quick strain, breath held as he pulled, and then, finally, the release of the knot, the ends of the ribbon slithering back down into the grommets. He let go of her immediately, stepping back just as she held the sweatshirt even more tightly to her chest, on the off chance that the entire thing might fall apart.

"Thanks." She'd let go of her hair and it fell around her face but she could see clearly enough to walk straight back to her little alcove. Once behind the screen she pulled the shirt entirely off, the back opening up as the ribbon slipped out, more precarious than she'd even realized. As she hung the shirt on the peg she reached up and touched the back of her neck, almost expecting to find it damp, but her skin was dry. She pulled on the sweatshirt, long sleeves hiding the goosebumps still so evident on her arms, then took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen, grateful for the distraction of the kettle


	3. Chapter 3

Tom dragged the back of his thumb over his lips, barely resisting the urge to bite down on his cuticle. He wound up biting the edge of his fingernail anyway. Shannon had disappeared behind the little paper partition, the barest amount of noise coming from there, mostly covered by the rumbling of the kettle. The top she was removing had seemed so innocent when he'd first seen it, with the odd juxtaposition of the brocade fabric and lacing to the thermal texture of the sleeves, but when he'd been standing too close to her to see the whole picture it was quite clearly a corset, the boning pressing into her skin this whole time, the laces done up inexpertly, though. "It's laced wrong," he'd told her, and she’d seemed unsurprised. "I know."

He sighed deeply, tried to adjust himself on the sofa, almost hard, not quite, a mildly uncomfortable sense of blood pooling and heating that had started the moment she'd swept her hair off her neck and leaned forward. She had a small freckle just at the base of her hairline, on the back of her neck, and he'd been seized by a desire to lean forward, just a bit more, and touch the tip of his tongue to it. She smelled good, like not much at all, really, and in that moment he just he just _wanted._

It wasn't as if he went through each day not wanting anything. There were constant wants-- more time, for one. A better way to stay in London, not be running off every other thing. He woke some mornings without Louis in the house and hurt with how badly he wanted him near. Those wants were assuaged with cool thought, though, the knowledge that he did what he did, going away, mainly so he could come back, and come back to stay, some day. This on the other hand had been too immediate for words, and even now, with the focus of his temptation hidden, he was finding it hard to put that want aside.

She'd bent forward, held still, made herself seem smaller than she was for no other reason than that she needed his help. He stared up at the broad skylights above the sofa, dirty and dim, but still reflective, and tried to reason with himself. She hadn't been offering him anything. She must have been embarrassed, in that moment, realizing that she couldn't even get out of her shirt without help. Must have been uncomfortable, to have to bother saying that she was changing anyway.

He thought of her walking out in her jeans, still wearing that shirt-- he'd felt a moment of disappointment, then, that she’d changed out of the skirt, and almost groaned aloud at himself for even thinking about it. He had plenty of opportunities to look at womens' legs. Why was he so disappointed not to be able to see hers?

He smiled at her when she emerged but she was looking away from him, going to the kettle, hiding, a bit, perhaps, after that awkward exchange.

"I'm making myself hibiscus," she said, holding up a plain white box with a splash of bright red on it. "I've got others though if you want something else."

"No, that sounds fine," he said, wondering if he was supposed to get up and get his mug, wondering if he even could. It had been a while since he had had to deal with an inconvenient erection, even one that was as half formed and unpredictable as this.

Shannon set a tea bag in each mug, left them on the worktop while she walked over to a crate on the far side of the room. There was a pile of papers on top of it, and she leafed through them, quickly but without any apology to him, seemingly lost for the moment in whatever she was looking at. She paused at one leaf, a photograph judging by the thickness of the paper, and laughed, quietly, before coming back to herself. She set the pile on top of another, smaller pile on a low table, and pushed the crate over to the sofa.

"Our table," she said. "You'll forgive me for not offering you a coaster."

He looked at the weathered surface of the wood. "I think a little tea would only improve the patina."

She smiled at him as she pushed the crate up against the edge of the sofa and he revised his earlier thought, glad she had changed. She had never looked uncomfortable, but in these clothes she looked more comfortable in her skin, and he realized that her previous outfit had been a costume, in every sense of the word.

"I have to agree, though the aged wood thing is about to have its day and be over." She scuffed back to the worktop on stocking feet.

"I might have to take your word for that, since I had no idea that there was an aged wood thing going on."

She brought the tea back, the bags removed, and set his mug down near him. His mug was huge, green with pale green polka-dots, hers a similar pattern in blue.

"Then you're not working in design. Take my word for it." She blew on the surface of her tea, cradling the mug in her hands. He picked his up, the porcelain almost too hot to hold comfortably.

"You really like your tea, don't you?" There had to be nearly a pint, he thought.

"It's herbal, right?" She took a sip, her upper lip stained red for a moment until she licked the color away.

"Right." He tasted it. Almost sweet, but not quite, clear, something fruity or floral on the back of his tongue after he swallowed. "I've never had hibiscus tea before."

She set her mug down. "Technically it's a tisane, since there's no actual tea in it, but I'm guessing I won't get a lecture from you about tea." She paused. "Or will I? Have I read you all wrong? Are we going to have to have a debate over milk in first versus tea in first?"

He shrugged. "I've never been too fussed, myself. Probably drink whatever you hand me." He heard his own words and felt his mouth twist down. "Probably part of my problem, actually."

"Well, there's only various kinds of teas and infusions here, so, I think we're safe." She shifted so her legs were curled up on the sofa, feet digging under the cushion behind her.

"Well, good." He took a drink, wondered what time it was, resisted the impulse to check his phone. The next day he had no obligations until well after noon, if it wasn't the next day already.

"So, you wanted to see that other picture," she said, and he realized they'd been sitting in silence for over a minute. It had felt safe, not something he really wanted to interrupt, the light from the lamps on the worktop casting the space in a soft glow.

"I'm always curious to see what's been left out," he said. "I know I should just enjoy the finished product, but it's like looking at the dailies on a film." He paused, wondering if it would be condescending to explain the term-- it was obvious enough, probably, and if Edward had made her watch all the making-of features on something as obscure as Bronson then she was probably aware.

"What _should_ ," she said, unfolding herself from the sofa. "You like what you like." When she shrugged it made the sweatshirt look huge on her, all that material moving around her shoulders. She'd turned it inside out so the soft but worn fleece was on the outside, and he thought about the fabric moving, warmed, against her skin. "I'm not much for snobbery."

She pulled a pile of canvases away from the wall, flipping through them. Some of them looked blank, others had paint on them, too far away for him to make sense of what he was looking at.

"I can agree with them, I guess," she said. "This would have been the only mixed media thing in the whole exhibit, and that might have been jarring." She pulled out the canvas, less than a meter wide and half as tall. Whereas the canvas he'd bought was all in blue and dark purple with thinner black lines demarcating a pair of spread wings, this was bright oranges and yellows, almost a nimbus but not quite, flares like a sunspot in places, the shape of the wing indistinct even with the feathers outlined. Here they were done in white, almost glowing, at the center, and there was a smear of something through the center of the canvas. She brought it to the sofa and leaned it on the edge of the crate that held their tea, so he was looking at it from about four feet away.

"What is that?" He reached towards the canvas, then stopped himself. 

"It's ok, you can touch it." She edged it closer.

Daedalus had looked calm, the shape of the feathers at the edges of the wings suggesting flight, the positions disturbed by a sudden change, but they were outspread, even, strong, and somehow static even in the midst of all that motion. That was why he'd bought it-- that and the fact that it was the right size, shape, and shade for the largest unadorned wall in his flat. Decor might not have been her aim but it wasn't like he was going to buy something that disgusted him.

This looked the opposite, the light behind and through the feathers almost too bright to bear, the feathers in disarray, though it was a controlled disarray, swept by the same circling breeze. When he let his fingers brush against the surface of the center of the painting it was clear that the smear was made by wax.

"What was the story, then?" he asked. Daedalus should have been a sad story, a father losing his son, hubris, a fatal flaw separating them forever, but there was such a sense of a solid certainty, and peace, rather than sadness in the colors, that he'd been drawn to it rather than repulsed as perhaps he should have been, given its namesake.

"You know the story." She lifted her chin as she raised her eyebrows at him, a challenge.

He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. "I know a story. I get the feeling I don't know this one."

She leaned the canvas against the crate, on his side, and got back on the sofa, closer to him now, her legs curled up as the crate was right in front of her. Her arm stretched along the back of the sofa towards him, almost but not quite touching.

"The story is that Icarus and his father were escaping from Crete on these wings, and Daedalus warned him, don't fly too close to the sun or too close to the water, or else you'll die. Just follow me. Icarus was so overcome with the euphoria of flying, though, that he couldn't help himself, and flew too close to the sun. The wax melted, all the feathers fell off, and he plummeted into the sea and drowned."

"But, that's not the story you're telling with these, is it."

She shook her head. "That story has been told many times before, by people better than me. Brueghel made a painting where the splash that Icarus makes is barely even noticed-- everyone just goes about their day on land, and there he is, dying. But the thing is, Daedalus made the labyrinth that the minotaur was housed in, he's the one who gave Persephone a ball of twine to help her lover escape. He was clever. He would have figured that his son would be so entranced by flight that he wouldn't listen. What father really truly thinks that their child is going to listen, especially when they're given a new vehicle?"

"So, he kept Icarus from dying?"

She nodded, reaching out to touch the surface of the canvas. "I think he let Icarus go first. In the myth he tells Icarus, follow me. But then he wouldn't be able to watch him, wouldn't be able to make sure that he was safe. I think he let Icarus go first, and saw what he was getting into. He wouldn't have let him get too far ahead, after all, and I think he managed to pull him back to reality before a tragedy happened. But I tend to think it was a near thing."

"Then, why the myth?"

"There had to be a lesson. King Minos had been made a fool of by Daedalus, and now here he is, escaping from Crete, which should have been impossible. If the king could make it so everyone knew in their hearts that Daedalus had suffered, if they were all scared, then the fact that he'd escaped his imprisonment wouldn't be such a loss."

"Edward said you made this in one night." He leaned closer, bumping into her shoulder as she pulled it up.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, but mostly true." 

Closer he could see that the lines that described the feathers were not as fine as on the larger canvas, but that could have been down to the heat obscuring their edges, as in a haze. He let his fingers trace over the smear of wax in the center, higher on each side. 

"This is where his arm was?" She hadn't stopped him from touching it, so far, so he traced down the center of the shape, feeling the contours.

"Yes. It's also where my arm was."

He took his hand away as he looked at her. "What kind of a night were you having, exactly?"

She laughed, lifting the canvas up and holding it just on the edge of the sofa. "Kind of good, kind of bad." She held up the back of her forearm and fit it into the groove. "It's still got most of my arm hair in it, so it might have been off-putting to have something with so many of my skin cells on it in a show that wasn't full of that sort of thing."

"You've done shows that were?"

She shook her head. "No, but I've curated them." She set the painting down again, now on her side of the crate, out of his view, then turned back to him.

Impulsively he took her wrists in his hands, holding her lightly, looking at her arms. There wasn't an appreciable difference in the amount of hair on either arm, both of them barely covered with light fuzz.

"I can tell the difference, but they're my arms."

He let go and ran the back of his hands down each of her arms. She held still as he did, then reached for her mug.

"Can't feel a difference either," he said.

She settled into the back of the sofa, pushing aside one of the wool blankets that covered it, elbow resting on the orange fabric. "Can I ask you a question about your tattoo?"

He reached for his own mug, to cover his surprise. He was wearing a normal shirt, not buttoned to the neck, but not open, either. He'd thought he was fairly covered. He touched his throat for a moment as he drank, realized that the second button had come undone at some point.

"Go ahead," he said. "I didn't realize you could even see it."

"Oh." She pulled the cuffs of her shirt over her hands, keeping the fabric between the mug and her hands, even though it had become cooler by now. "Sorry, I don't have to ask."

"No, it's fine."

"It's just that, I've been told off for asking before, about tattoos. I always thought, well, they're there, in the open, but I know that’s not the done thing, and you thought that was hidden, anyway."

"It's ok, go ahead."

"I was just wondering, are you?"

He blinked, wondering how he could have lost the thread of the conversation so thoroughly. "Am I what?"

"A proud father."

He smiled and touched the words over his collarbone. "Yeah, I am." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, unable not to look at the time on the clock-- just past midnight. "Here, just a second." He opened the photos, scrolled down to one of the more recent ones of Louis, in the garden. He'd been taken with collecting small stones and piling them at the foot of Tom's chair. Any attempts to help had been rebuffed. "He just turned two." He handed her the phone, the pictures cued to one of him smiling, crouched by his pile of rocks.

She took the phone, touched the screen then looked at him, questioning.

"Go ahead, there's hundreds of them." He watched as she scrolled through about a dozen.

"What's his name?"

"Louis."

"Does he live with you?" She looked up, suddenly guilty, as if she might be keeping him from his son.

"He lives with his mom and her husband, here in London. I see him as often as I can, twice a week if I'm in town. Obviously if I'm off filming somewhere I see him hardly at all. He gets bored with Skype easily."

"Yeah, I can only imagine," she said, scrolling through the photos. "He looks like he likes to move." She handed the phone back to him, the picture now on Louis scaling one of the larger chairs in the garden, one leg hanging down even as he had his knee firmly on the seat.

"He does, actually."

He took a moment to look at the photo before putting his phone away.

"Thanks for showing me those," Shannon said.

"Of course." She looked like she still wanted to say something, biting the corner of her lips, just a bit, without her teeth showing. It was funny how she looked pensive, not coy. "Did you want to ask me something?"

She looked surprised to be caught, as if she had no idea of the way she wore her thoughts on her face. "No, I was just trying to restrain myself from saying all the things that you must have heard a thousand times before." She held her hands up, fingers spread out. "He's beautiful, he looks smart, aaaah, he looks just like you." She put her hands back down. "You know, all that."

Tom laughed. "I do hear that a lot but it's no more than I deserve, if I take out the baby pictures. And he is beautiful, even if he does look like me." He reached for his mug, hoping she would let it go. "I feel like a hobbit with this mug."

She grinned and retrieved her mug too. "Wouldn't that be great, to have a bunch of hobbit-scale stuff around your house? You could just take it out when people were over and just be all, what? No, these are the regular mugs. That is the regular plate. You're sitting in a regular chair!" She laughed out loud, imagining it, and Tom laughed too, caught up in the scene she was seeing in her head.

"Now that would be committing to the bit, if you had the hobbit-scale chair in your house."

She leaned back into the sofa, letting her legs unfold, inching closer to him. "It would be nice, though, if it were an armchair. A few years ago when I was in the US, there was this design craze going on for a chair-and-a-half. I thought it was stupid. Smaller than a loveseat but bigger than a club chair, it was supposed to be the last word in, oh what did they call it. Cozy elegance. I wanted to just commit and make them bigger. Make them huge! Like a tree-house in your living room."

"Could two people sit in it at once, at least?"

"If they were children. Or liked each other a lot." She frowned as she drank again, trying to remember something, he thought. "It was just after September eleventh. So I guess it was more than just a few years ago. Everything that came out that winter was huge and squishy and cozy, like people were trying to burrow into their houses and not come out."

"You should have been in university then," he said, guessing, but an educated guess.

"Yeah, I was. I had an internship with a design company in Boston. Turned me off design forever, in a way, but I can't stop looking."

"I can see how that might happen." He tried to think of something else he'd done, something from a past life that he couldn't quite let go of. "I can't say I've retained much of an interest in modeling."

"Oh god, me neither, though I doubt I was doing the same sort of modeling as you were."

"Yeah, I doubt it too." Tom struggled not to picture it, was stopped dead by her sudden laughter.

"I was thinking of when I did a catalogue for a fancy dress company.” She reached out and touched his arm, holding on, as if she’d been laughing hard enough to need to steady herself.

"Fancy dress?" Her hand was warm against his arm.

"Medieval dress, astronaut, um, let me see." She took her hand back as she thought. "I was staying with my dad at the time and he told me that if they offered me a belly dancer costume not to take it so I refused that one but there is one of me as a biker." She laughed. "I had such horrible acne that summer but they smeared on this green make-up and in the photos my skin looks great. Between that and the endless standing around and changing clothes a thousand times the bloom was right off the rose with that one."

"How old were you?"

"I was seventeen. It was just something to do for a bit of pocket money. I went with a friend who was in one of those modeling schools. It was an assignment for her and they asked her to bring a friend, so there I was. They paid us in credit to the rental shop."

"So much for the pocket money." He thought of the times he'd wound up stiffed. He thought of himself at seventeen-- he'd have stolen the leather jacket, probably.

"It was alright. Got me out of the house for the day and convinced me I wasn't missing out on anything by not being a model."

"Worth every moment then, I'd say." He looked down at the sofa. She'd moved closer, again, not seeming to, but every time she unfolded her legs and curled up again she inched nearer. He leaned forward and set his mug down.

She was kneeling, now, just a bit taller than him, balancing with her left hand against the back of the sofa. He watched as she rubbed the palm of her right hand against her jeans, hitching the cuff of the sweatshirt up her arm.

"I was wondering about something," she said, reaching towards him. He held still as she cupped the far side of his face, turning his head gently, found himself closing his eyes and tilting his head up as she leaned forward.

The first touch of her mouth was hot, lips warmed by tea, maybe, or maybe he was colder than he'd realized. He put his arms around her, one hand firm on her hip, heel of his hand digging in against the thick waistband of her jeans, fingers curling around to the softer skin on her back, slipping up under her shirt as she leaned closer. His other hand traced a slow path up and down her spine, teased along the nape of her neck, then back down, his fingers itching to let his hand glide up the furrow of her spine, tracing over the bare space there, nearly sure that she wasn't wearing anything under the loose shirt. 

She pulled back before he could respond, lips cool suddenly as she leaned away from him, her hand still cupping his cheek. He leaned into her hand, making it easier to look up at her.

"Is this alright?"

He could feel the rasp of his cheek against her palm when he smiled; she seemed so genuinely concerned for him, completely unaware of the effect that she'd been having on him for hours already.

"Yes. It's definitely alright." He reached up and covered the back of her hand with his, gently linking their fingers together, that simple gesture tugging at him more than the kiss had.

She was leaning, though, swaying on her knees. "I know something that could make it better," he said. "Or at least easier for you."

"What?"

He brought her hand to his shoulder, then reached down and firmly grasped the back of her thigh, just above her knee. She gasped, a high pitched little nose as he pushed on her opposite hip, pulling her over his lap so she had a knee to either side of him, still sitting up enough that she wasn't actually resting on his thighs.

"Alright?" he asked her.

"Yes." She had a hand on either of his shoulders, keeping her chest closed, making it natural for him to rest his hands on her hips, just above her waistband, thumbs making soft circles over the smooth fleece of her shirt. "I have to say something, though, and I hope it doesn't come off as weird, but too bad if it does."

"Oh?" He held his hands still, waiting.

"I just want to say, before I get all carried away and whatever, I'm not having sex with you tonight."

He smiled, resisted the urge to hold her closer. "Not weird." He leaned forward a little as she settled in, hands slipping up behind his neck, knees sliding towards the back of the sofa as she sat down warmly on him.

This time when she kissed him she licked a soft quick stripe along his bottom lip, nipping at him, hard enough that he felt no qualms about giving chase, surging up to capture her mouth, tongue flickering first, but then pushing, delighted to find that she understood the silent language of it all, part joke, part challenge, sweetly serious and new but funny, even ridiculous at the same time. 

He was caught, the sofa too soft for him to push against, her shins against the edge of the frame giving her all the leverage, always seeming to hover just out of range for him to be able to really control the kiss. For all that she'd seemed to be surprised when he'd pulled her on to his lap he suspected that she had planned it, or, if not planned, then was pleased with the outcome. His beard rasped against her face for a moment, he pulled back, then leaned forward, a different angle. He relinquished one hand's hold on her lower back, cupped her neck, tried to bring her closer only to have her clamp her knees onto his hips and pull him up to her, pressing into his mouth, hungry.

He forgot, in that moment, that he could have stood up, could have rolled away from her, just held on and opened himself up to her. He ran his hands over her back, felt the way her shoulders rounded down towards him, and had to feel that, had to feel the way her skin was stretching over her spine. He grabbed at the hem of her shirt, slid his palms hard up her back, fingers digging into her shoulder blades. He registered the fact that he hadn't felt the strap of a bra on his way up her back, moaned into her mouth so quickly it could have been called a squeak, and felt her smile against him.

She leaned back, slightly, thumbs gently tracing up and down the side of his neck, contrasting to the way she'd been handling him, to the way he'd let himself be handled. He let his hands slide down, and out, resting on her rib cage, just below her arms. The very air against his hands felt warmer, and she held perfectly still.

"Can I?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd asked, for anything, couldn't remember the last time something had been so fragile or new that he had to ask. 

She nodded, but he didn't move until she spoke. 

"Yes. Please." She leaned forward slightly, stretching herself out, and he let his hands roam around her sides, fingertips brushing against the slight twin swells of her breasts, hands turning so he could take their subtle weight, the softly damp lower curve of them against his palms.

He looked at her face for as long as he could stand, his eyes begging to shut, heavy lidded as he let himself get lost in the feeling, wanting, the soft resistance of them, sweet and warm, surprisingly firm bump of nipple between his thumb and the side of his hand. She shivered, her whole body shimmying against him, almost but not quite grinding against his thigh. He let his hands slide around her back, again, pulled her close, holding her against him so her breasts were now just a warm pressure against his own chest. She'd been clear with him, he thought. Getting her worked up to the point that she was frustrated at saying no was no better than pushing her to the edge of something she didn't actually want. He pushed her hair of her neck and held his hand against the soft skin there, shivering himself, just slightly, when he remembered her head bent in front of him. He wanted to own her, already, wanted to be responsible for every good feeling she might have, but the urge to protect her was there too, even if only from himself.

"What're you thinking about?" Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, her arms nearly limp but wrapped around the back of his neck.

"Just, you," he said. "I'm thinking I'm glad I didn't beg off going to that gallery tonight." As soon as he said it he wanted to take it back, such a cliched thing to say.

"I liked that," she said, twisting back and forth just slightly, making his hands move against her skin. "You could do that again."

He slid his hands up her sides, barely had the backs of his fingers against the very beginnings of her curves when he was stopped by a sudden sharp pain just below his left buttock, something sharp, something that made his entire body stiffen and freeze with the prospect of an unexpected danger.

"Something is poking me," he managed to grit out, letting go of her reluctantly. Visions of some kind of craft blade left among the cushions and blankets entered his mind, and he didn't dare move.

"It's a spring," she said, leaning back, sliding back to his knees, ready to stand up. "I'm sorry, I forgot there was a spring sticking out over here."

"Stop." He had his hands on her lower back, urging her closer. Now that he knew it was only a spring the pain had receded to something entirely manageable, for the moment. "Put your arms around my shoulders."

She leaned into him, did as he asked, warm and pliant against his chest. He leaned far forward, sliding to the edge of the sofa as he did, hands sliding under her bottom as he leaned again and stood, hitching her up against him.

She laughed, legs wrapping around him, tight, arms squeezing as she got used to the balance of them holding still. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and he swayed a little as he waited for her to open them.

"You're not up all that high," he said when she finally cracked them open.

"I just didn't expect that." She let her back bow out, slouching in his arms, making it harder to hold on to her, but her legs were still tight around his waist, her body warm against him even through the layers of their clothes.

"I had to stand up, I was being poked by a spring." They were so close he couldn't really focus on her face, eyes crossing and blurring when he tried.

"This was the only way," she agreed, adjusting and leaning on his shoulder again, arms slipping down to wrap around his back. "It had nothing to do with you wanting to get a hold of my bum." 

He tightened his hands enough to make the denim slide against her, found himself wondering if it was against her knickers or her skin, tried to put the thought out of his mind. "How else was I supposed to remove us both from harm's way?" He put the edge of his boot against the edge of the crate, slid it along the edge of the sofa to one side so the middle cushion was free again.

"Of course, I forgot that my sofa is actually an incredibly dangerous pit."

He sat down, leaning away from the offending spring as he did. "It seems to be." He let go of her bum, reluctantly, sliding his hands back up her back, cupping the small wings of her shoulder blades, fingers firm against her skin, not moving, not pressing his luck after all that.

She leaned away too, and the two of them fell slowly towards the surface of the sofa as she stretched her legs out, claiming the inside of the cushions, leaving him to lift his feet, their legs tangling together as he adjusted the wool blanket that was behind his head. She wound up half on him, thighs just bracketing his hip, her head resting on his shoulder. 

"What time is it?" she asked, voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Past midnight." He'd lost track, at some point, but it felt like about one in the morning, maybe later.

"Do you have to go?" She touched the edge of the button band on his shirt, let her fingers slide along the fabric then slipped under, pushing his shirt aside to look at the edges of his tattoos. "I don't want you to be tired tomorrow."

He shook his head. "Rare day off. Louis is coming over in the afternoon, though."

"We should go." She only tightened her legs around him, settling more firmly on his chest.

"So you say." He ran his hand up her side, letting her sweatshirt ruck up, wondering if the cool air against her skin would wake her up. "You going to be alright?"

"I'll wake up once we're outside." She turned her head, propping her chin on his chest, almost too sharp, then slid up, kissing him again, soft and lazy, barely opening her mouth at all. He pushed the hair out of her face as he kissed her back. It felt like a middle of the night kiss, or an early morning kiss, which it was, he reflected. It felt like a lot more than one evening together. She looked at him, blinking slowly, before she set her head down again. "I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute."

"No, no, famous last words," he said, tickling at her side, scratching his nails lightly against her skin. She just whined softly, settled in, hand clasped over his, holding him still.

She was dozing almost immediately, and he felt himself following suit. He thought of the reasons that he shouldn't-- in an unlocked studio, middle of the night, possibly sketchy neighbor artist with a blowtorch a few feet away. Even so it was all he could do to keep his eyes open, time seeming to move both more slowly and more quickly, strange spaces between his own breaths, in which he seemed to imagine long stretches of indistinct dream. At the same time it felt like there was a clock ticking away the amount of time he had left to hold her, the warm places where her legs crossed over his, the firm sense of her against his hip, even the heavy warmth in the pit of his stomach, the weight of his cock curled against his thigh, sweet to actually want and wait, who knew how long.

Footsteps in the hallway startled him awake. He opened his eyes wide, ready to push Shannon aside into the back of the couch if he had to sit suddenly, but the knock at the door was polite, soft but distinct, someone who wanted to be heard and was accustomed to knocking on this particular door.

"Mmm?" Shannon lifted her head, suddenly awake and alert. "Come in."

Christian opened the door and looked in, nodding briefly to Tom. "I'm leaving in a moment Shannon," he said, looking tactfully at a spot just over her head, not taking in the sight of them lying together on the sofa. "Got a cab coming in a moment, you need a lift anywhere?"

"Thanks, Christian, but I'm alright. See you later."

"Night." He slipped out as Shannon was carefully extracting herself from the spot between Tom's body and the sofa, arching her back as she carefully lowered her feet to the floor.

"We should go," she said. "Where are you going?"

"Home," he said. "Islington. Did you want to share a cab?"

"I'm actually not far." She walked towards the screen by the galley kitchen, found her boots, shoved her feet into them. She held onto the worktop, not as steady as she was letting on. "Just down the street really, in Peckham."

He felt himself start at that, and she caught him at it, naturally.

"Oh don't look at me like that, it's a perfectly nice place. I'm closer to the Dulwich side anyway."

"Christian is probably still here, you could share a cab with him." He was afraid she was going to suggest that he let her walk home alone.

"He lives nowhere near me either, I can get my own." She crouched down to lace her boots, wound up looking at him under her lashes. "Or you could walk home with me, call a cab from there."

 _Do you not think that maybe I'm the thing you need protecting from?_ He thought it, but didn't challenge her, the thought of even a few more minutes with her too tempting to chance on a smart-arsed remark.

Shannon spoke quietly when they were outside, as if in deference to the people inside the houses they passed, though the windows were all shut against the cool autumn air.

The streets were quiet once they stepped off the main road and her pace was fast, almost too fast for comfortable talking anyway. She had linked her arm with his and their strides matched-- when he turned his head to speak to her it was apparent that they were the same height, or very nearly, her boots making it difficult to tell.

"It's not that it's a bad neighborhood, or that I don't want to live here," she said as they turned on to her street. There were high garden walls on either side with greenery cascading down, recessed gateways at each home's front path. It was charming in the daytime, he was sure, but in the small hours of the morning it made him if not nervous, the vigilant. "I just don't tend to walk home in the dark by myself. It's not even that I think anything particularly horrible will happen, only that I don't fancy being harassed on my way home."

He let the words sink in, tried to remember the last time he'd seriously second guessed the route or means of transport he'd take anywhere. Outside of avoiding people who he'd personally injured or insulted, over a decade ago, now, he couldn't think of one. "Isn't that horrible enough?"

She laughed softly. "What times are these that passing ruffians may say nee to an old woman?"

He chuckled despite himself, glad when the walled front gardens gave way to row houses on either side of the street. Hers was the first in a row near a zebra crossing, the yellow globes on the lights casting a warm glow over the glossy blue paint on the door. The drapes over the front window were heavy, but a bit askew, and there was a soft light shining through.

"This is me," she said, leading him up the path. "Come on in. It looks like someone is still up."

She went ahead of him down the narrow hall, hanging her key and coat on a hook. She reached out for his coat and he handed it over, not sure how long he'd stay, caught in the strange space between wanting to be near her and not wanting to overstay his welcome.

He followed her into the lounge, a large room painted in warm red tones, bookcases lining the walls and covering every inch that wasn't taken up by windows or the fireplace. The fireplace itself was filled with candles, all burning, the amount of wax dripping down indicating that they'd been lit for some time. In front of the fireplace there was a low square table, and sitting on either side was a person draped in dark cloth, a cross of tarot cards spread out between them. He froze, wondering if he'd accidentally wandered into some sort of ritual, if they were both about to be told off. She reached back for him, pulling him closer to her side.

Both of the people looked up, and he realized that what he'd taken at first to be some sort of ceremonial draping was just a thin blanket over each of them, wrapped around shoulders and over their heads to keep off the chill.

"Sarah and Max, this is Tom."

"Hey." The one he thought was Sarah was small, fair, short hair, tiny nose ring. Max, also a girl, taller, longer hair, just waved at him.

"Hi." He stood there for a moment longer, leaning on Shannon a bit, relieved when she tugged on his arm.

"We're just calling a cab for Tom. We'll be in the kitchen."

"Alright." Max had already turned her attention back to the cards.

Tom followed Shannon into the kitchen, a place that would be bright and open in the daytime, tall windows covering the walls, tiny pendulum lights dangling over all the worktops.

"Do you want anything?" She stood behind the worktop after he'd sat himself on a tall stool, giving the somewhat alarming impression that she was his waitress.

"I'm good." He took out his phone and looked at the time-- half past two. He scrolled through his contacts looking for the number to text for a cab, then sent it. Moments later his phone dinged with an incoming text, three numbers for nearby minicabs and the black cab number. He thought about his odds of being made, small though they were, and dialed the black cab number, the extra expense being worth the discretion. Shannon busied herself with washing a dish that had been on the floor, for a cat, by the looks of it, while he waited for the operator to pick up. "What's your address?" he asked her, suddenly realizing that in a very real way he had no idea where he was.

She told him, and he repeated it to the dispatcher, asked for an ETA, not really all that surprised that it might be the better part of an hour. "Yeah, that's alright," he said, feeling exceptionally tired, suddenly, wondering how he was going to stay awake in this house, with the front room taken over by a couple of new agey women who apparently didn't need sleep, or, at least, didn't need it at the usual times.

"What's up?" Shanon set down a fresh water bowl and stood up, brushing her hands off on her jeans.

"Half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes," he said. "Problem is, I can't see the street from back here and I doubt that your roommates would like me hanging out in there."

"Oh they're alright, it's just a bit of fun," she said. "My room looks over the street, though, we can wait up there." He could tell from the way she climbed the stairs that she was as tired as him, the giddy sort of energy that had held them up for the first part of the evening now dissipating. "You'll have to excuse the chaos, I didn't think I was having anyone over." She paused at the landing, four doors clustered around the small hallway, and stopped him with a gentle hand in the middle of his chest. "Wait here if you don't mind, for a second. Loo is there, if you need it."

He stepped in and shut the door. The room was full of feminine accoutrements, on wire shelves and the high windowsill, more different bottles of shampoo and conditioner and who knew what else lining the tiny shelves near the shower. 

As he washed his hands at the sink he looked at himself in the mirror, noted the dark circles under his eyes but also the sort of unnatural brightness to the eyes themselves. He wouldn't have blamed someone for thinking that he was high, and he had to laugh at the thought.

When he stepped out of the room Shannon was already in the hallway, standing by the bannister in her socks, jeans changed for track pants.

"I've seen you in more outfits tonight," he remarked.

She smirked as she stepped past him. "Go on in. I'll be right there."

Her room was tidy enough, the bed nearly pushed against the wall with the windows on it, the radiator forcing a narrow strip between the bed and the windowsills. There were books stacked on the floor, carefully set apart from the radiator itself, and her dresser was piled with books too, but also scraps of cloth, a pile of what looked like linoleum tiles, and small bottles, almost like pill bottles, that were full of something small and shiny, large sequins or small buttons, he couldn't tell which without picking them up and it seemed wrong to investigate that far.

There was one chair near the end of the bed, and he sat down, looking out the window and down to the street. The only light in the room came from the white fairy lights looped over the curtain rods and the head of the bed, the light nearly bright enough to read by, but soft enough that he thought he'd be able to fall asleep if given half a chance.

Shannon came back, hair pulled back and her face damp. She climbed on to the top of her bed, feet tucked under a quilt, leaning against the headboard. "You don't have to sit on that chair, you know. You can sit up here."

"Sort of afraid I'll fall asleep," he admitted, but he was already taking his boots off.

"I won't let you." She looked plenty tired herself, though, sinking down slowly against the pillows.

He slipped his arm behind her back as he sat against the flat wooden headboard, holding her close to his side. They were both above the covers, but she'd pulled a quilt over her legs, and he looked at the patches, pulling on the fabric to make it lie flat. They were all tee-shirts, cut to show the logos of schools and bands, various holiday spots.

"Who made this for you?" He pulled the cloth so he could make out one of the squares, a piece cut from a Gaelic Athletic Association shirt.

"I made it for myself," she said, moving so more of the patches were visible. "Neither of my grandmothers are really all that into quilting, and they were both quite elderly by the time I was born. But I wanted a quilt like this, so I made it."

He let his fingers trace over the flaking decal on one near her hip, a striped lighthouse.

"Don't look for clues," she said, smiling, her eyes closed as she leaned back. "I got all the shirts from charity shops."

"They look like they could have been yours," he said, thrown for a minute-- he had been imagining her collecting the shirts over years, over all the places she'd traveled and lived.

"That's the point, but they're not. There are a few from places I've never been. It's a sort of manufactured nostalgia." She giggled, and even though it was high pitched it was still a sleepy sound. "I'm pleased it fooled you."

"Well, it doesn't take much," he admitted. She was warm and solid against his arm, and for a moment he wished that he had thought to ask if he could sleep next to her, waiting until the trains started. It would only be a few hours, now. His phone vibrated with an incoming call and he answered, both pleased and disappointed to find out that his cab would be along in the next five minutes. "I've got to get my shoes on," he said, trying to take his arm away carefully. He slipped his other arm under her lower back, slid her down so her head was resting against the pillows.

"You should call me so your number will be in my phone," she said, gesturing to where she'd left it on its charger on top of her dresser. Tom shoved his feet into his boots while she recited her number to him. He texted her, saved her as a contact, then tied his laces.

"Should you set an alarm?" he asked her. She was watching him, eyes wide open but the rest of her entirely still.

"I'll wake up when the sun hits my face."

He leaned over and kissed her, hand on her forehead holding her still. She let her lips part almost immediately, the taste of mint strong on her tongue making him wonder how he tasted. He was about to stand up when her hand, light but insistent on the back of his neck, stopped him. He knelt on the floor, then, leaning over her, one arm under her back again pulling her closer. He let his hand trace down her side from her shoulder to her hip and back, tee-shirt skimming over smooth skin, her entire body feeling pliable and sweet as she wriggled closer to him. It was only the soft hum of tires on the pavement outside that made him pull away, kissing her one last time, chaste and firm on her mouth.

"I am calling you tomorrow to make sure you don't sleep the day away," he warned her as he stood up.

"Do." She rolled back towards the head of the bed, pulled out the blankets and folded herself up so she could slide under them. He pulled the corner of her quilt up over her one exposed shoulder, smoothed it down, then left before he could be tempted to stay any longer.

Downstairs the lights were on in the kitchen, Sarah and Max's voices softly rising and falling. He pulled his coat on, then stuck his head into the kitchen. "I'm leaving now, do you have to disarm the alarm?"

Sarah shook her head. "Haven't set it yet, will do when we go upstairs."

"Right. Good night." He hurried out to the waiting cab, sat in the back seat, chewing the side of his thumb, leg jiggling all the way home.


End file.
